TITLE: Now and in the Hour
SPOILER STATEMENT: Requiem. Revelations.
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT STATEMENT: MSR implied. Character death (not Mulder or Scully).
Religious content.
CLASSIFICATION: VRA
SUMMARY: Requiem post-ep. "Sometimes I dream about a bright, white place."
THANKS: To Narida, Paulette, Shannon and Sharon, for beta services, natch.
AND: A tip o' the hat to Mish, whose beautiful story, "My Favorite Word",
undoubtedly influenced the style I used in this one -- although I didn't notice
it until one of the lovely ladies who beta read for me pointed it
out. :)
Now and in the Hour
by Brandon D. Ray
Sometimes I dream about a bright, white place. I think I could stay there if I
want to, but I don't want to. No one would want to.
But sometimes I'm afraid I might have to.
There isn't much to see or hear in the bright, white place, and there's
absolutely nothing to do. In the dream, I'm always lying on a cold, metal
table. I don't have any straps or restraints on my wrists or ankles, but I
can't move, anyway. There's something dripping into my veins through a tube
they've put into my arm. I think it's food, but there's probably other stuff in
there I don't want to think about.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Once I tried to count the drips. They were slow and steady; almost hypnotic. I
lost count when I got to eight hundred and seventy-two.
Sometimes they come for me when I'm in the dream. I can never really see them,
and I don't know where they come from. Suddenly they're in the room with me,
and they're doing things to me. Occasionally the things are just annoying, or
even boring. But most of the time they hurt.
A lot.
I scream a lot, when they come for me in the dream. The first few times I tried
not to, but it didn't take long for me to realize that it was pointless to try
and act tough. I don't lose anything by admitting that it hurts; they're not
trying to hurt me, anyway. I don't know what it is they *are* trying to do, but
making me hurt isn't it. Making me hurt is just a byproduct of whatever it is
they're really doing. So now I scream when I need to, and I need to a lot.
Sometimes I'm hot, and sometimes I'm cold, and sometimes the hot and cold are
part of the hurting. Sometimes the pain is inside -- in my gut or in my chest
or in my head. Sometimes the pain is in my groin, and that's the worst of all,
because it always feels as if I'm being burned to ashes when it hurts down
there. And the fact that it's not really true just makes it worse. That means
they can come back and do it again. And again. And again.
And they do.
I tend to forget who I am when I have the dream. I get confused. I think I
should be a boy, or maybe a teenager. I think I should be fifteen or so.
But I'm not. I don't *feel* fifteen; I don't *feel* like a boy. I feel like a
man, and I'm confused by that because I don't really know what a man's supposed
to feel like. Except, of course, that the way I feel when I dream of the
bright, white place is the way that it feels to be a man.
None of this makes any sense -- not even to me.
Whoever I am.
It's so frustrating, because I feel that I should know me; I feel that I'm
familiar in some way. I've tried and tried and tried, and sometimes it seems as
if it's on the tip of my tongue. I can almost taste it; my name is right there,
waiting to be recognized and spoken ....
And then it's gone again.
Eventually, the dream always ends. Sometimes it ends after a few minutes;
sometimes it seems to last for hours, or even days. Sometimes they come and
hurt me and hurt me and hurt me until my throat is raw from screaming.
Sometimes I just lie there on the table in the bright, white place, unable to
move, until the dream finally ends.
It always does end. But I think I could stay, if I wanted to.
I don't want to.
# # #
Sometimes I dream that I'm a woman. In this dream I'm short and I have red
hair, and I'm very, very determined. I'm searching for something, or maybe for
someone ....
It isn't entirely clear.
There are other people in this dream, and that's a good thing. The first dream,
the dream about the bright, white place, is frightening because I'm all alone.
I never see anyone but them, and I don't see them very well. I don't think
they're human, anyway. They scare me.
But in this dream there are others, although they're mostly at a distance. Not
a physical distance, but an emotional one. I think that's my own doing. I
think some of the people in this dream would help me if I would let them, but
something inside -- something that isn't quite *me* -- won't let it happen. I
don't know why. It just is.
In this dream, I work in an office down in the basement. Some basement. I'm
not sure where it is. I only know it's in the basement because I have to take
an elevator to get there, and I always push the button marked "B". Well, most
of the time. Sometimes I go to other floors, but I never stay there very long.
I don't like it on the upper floors; the basement is the only place that's safe.
It's the only place where I can be alone.
Most of the people I see in this dream are men. There's one man in particular
who I spend a lot of time talking to. He's tall and bald and wears glasses, and
he gives me orders. A lot of the time I don't like the orders he gives me, but
I usually obey them. It's easier that way.
But sometimes I ignore him and sometimes I work around him, and when he finds
out it makes him angry. He never yells at me, though. He just gets quiet and
his lips turn into a thin, angry line. I know he's not really angry with me --
not mostly, anyway. He's angry with other people, the people who give *him*
orders, and he's angry with himself. I'm not sure why he's angry with himself,
but I think it has something to do with the man I'm searching for.
Yes, it is a man I'm looking for. I'm pretty sure, anyway. There's a picture
of a man in my wallet, and I take it out and look at it when no one else is
around. He's nice enough looking, although his nose is too big. Dark hair, and
hazel colored eyes, and in the picture he has a sarcastic smirk on his face. I
feel a clenching, tearing sensation in my chest when I look at the picture, but
I never actually see him in my dream, and I never talk to him, not even on the
telephone. So I think he must be the one I'm looking for.
The last few times I had this dream, I've noticed some changes. Not changes in
the things around me; changes in *me*. My belly seems to be getting larger, and
I feel odd ticklings down there from time to time. It took me a while to figure
out, but I finally realized that I'm pregnant, and the tickling feelings are the
baby starting to move. It's embarrassing that it took me so long to work that
out, but that's probably because I've never been a woman before.
Sometimes I look at myself in a mirror and try to remember who I am, but I never
can. I have warm feelings whenever I see my face; this woman helped me somehow,
some way. I get brief flashes, sometimes, images or memories or something, of
my hands bleeding and the woman in the mirror fighting to defend me, and
believing in me when no one else would. I see another splash of blood, lots of
it, but it's not mine, and I think she saved me ....
But that's not quite right. I mean, she *did* save me; that part is pretty
clear, and I remember telling her we'd see each other again. A promise that
I've finally kept, although not in the way either of us expected. But I don't
think she believed in *me* ... although I don't know what it is she *did*
believe in. Whatever it was, it was important, and it helped her to help me.
I'm sure of that.
There's something sad about being pregnant, though, and that bothers me. I
think the sadness has to do with the man in the picture, the one I cry about
when I'm alone in the basement. That's another reason I think he's the one I'm
looking for. I look at his picture and put my hand on my belly, and I cry
silent tears. Never for very long, and *never* when anyone might see me. But I
cry anyway. And it hurts even more because I try to hold it in.
Eventually, this dream always ends, too.
# # #
Sometimes I dream about a voice -- or rather, a Voice. I'm not sure why I want
to capitalize that word, but I do. It seems more respectful that way --
although, again, I'm not sure why that's important.
I try to listen to the Voice. I try to understand the things It says, but it's
very hard. It's not that the words are difficult; they're mostly very simple.
But what I don't understand is the intention. I don't get the context.
One of the things the Voice likes to say is, =This is My son, with whom I am
well pleased.= I don't know what that's all about -- except, of course, that I
am somebody's son. I have parents, or had them. Have them, I think, or at
least one of them, although when I'm dreaming it's hard to know anything for
sure.
But I don't think that's what the Voice is talking about, and that confuses me.
It makes me think that maybe I'm not the one with whom the Voice is well
pleased, and that makes me sad, because I want to please the Voice. But then I
look at my hands -- in this dream, I'm in my own body, and it *is* the body of a
teenage boy -- and I see blood there. Two spots of blood, one on each hand, and
I know somehow that if I took off my shoes there'd be blood on my feet, as well.
That blood is important. I don't need the Voice to tell me that. It says
something, it's a clue about who I am, and maybe if I think about it long enough
and hard enough I'll figure it all out. And *then* maybe I'll understand what
I'm supposed to do. And if I can figure out what I'm supposed to do, and do it,
I think everything will be all right. I think the Voice will be pleased with me
after all.
I want the Voice to be pleased with me.
I *am* supposed to do something. I'm sure of that much. I just don't know
*what*. It has something to do with the bright, white place, and it has
something to do with the pregnant woman who helped me, all in a flash of blood.
It has something to do with her sorrow and her baby, and it has something to do
with the pain and the aloneness that I feel in both my dreams. It has something
to do with the man in the picture; the one that I cry over when I'm alone in the
basement.
The one that *she* cries over when *she's* alone in the basement.
Another thing the Voice likes to say is, =Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.= I don't
know what language that is, but somehow I know what it means: =God hath
numbered thy kingdom and finished it. Thou art weighed in the balances, and art
found wanting. Thy kingdom is divided, and given to the Medes and the
Persians.=
Thou art weighed in the balances.
Thy kingdom is divided.
I don't like those words. I don't like what I'm afraid they might mean.
I don't want the Voice to be talking about me.
But I'm afraid that It is.
I find myself murmuring other words, speaking back to the Voice. Maybe if I can
find the right phrases, the right things to say, that will be enough, and the
cup will be passed from me. Or maybe at least I'll find out what I'm supposed
to do. That's the main thing that makes me want to say something.
"Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name ...."
But the dream doesn't end.
# # #
I'm dreaming about the bright, white place again, and at first everything seems
to be the same. The same cold, hard table; the same inability to move; the same
tube in my arm, feeding me. Drip. Drip. Drip. My throat is raw and painful,
so I know that I must have been screaming recently.
They will be coming for me again soon. I don't know how I know this, but I do.
It could be minutes, or
seconds, maybe even an hour. But it will be soon, and it will be for the last
time. I don't know how I know this, but I do. I'm going to die, and it won't
be pleasant.
But it will be soon.
=No man shall know the day or hour.=
For a second I think someone is in the room with me, but then I realize that
it's the Voice again, reminding me of something that I shouldn't have forgotten.
I don't remember hearing the Voice before when I was in the bright, white
place, but now it seems natural that It should be here. What better place for a
Word of consolation, than this room where I've suffered so much?
My name is once again on the tip of my tongue, and I realize that more than
anything, I'd like to remember who I am before I die. I struggle and search,
ransacking my memory, trying to find some clue, but it just won't come to me. I
keep having visions of blood on my hands -- on *my* hands, on my fifteen year
old hands, superimposed over the rough, adult hands of the man I dream of being
when I'm in this place. It drives me crazy, because I know that should give me
the answer --
And suddenly it does, and the knowledge bursts through my mind, filling me with
joy. In the next instant my joy is increased, because I realize that I don't
have to be here; I don't have to stay and die. This is only a dream, after all;
I can leave before the end, and everything will be okay.
I've been struggling against the invisible bonds that hold me to the table, but
now I relax, knowing that I can escape at will. I can close my eyes and end the
dream, and I can be Kevin once more. Just Kevin. Only Kevin. I can wake up
safe and sound in my own bed, in my own home, and never have to see this awful
place again. I start getting ready to leave --
=Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.=
A chill runs down my spine as I hear those words, as if somebody were walking on
my grave. It's the Voice again, of course, and now I know It's speaking about
me. I don't want to hear it, I try to push it away, but then I see again the
woman with the red hair, fighting for my life amidst a splash of blood, then
sitting in the basement office crying silently and alone, her hand resting on
her swollen belly.
I see the man in the picture, too. I see him lying quietly in a bed, and I
realize that it's *my* bed, in *my* room. My favorite rosary is on the dresser,
and my school books are lined up neatly on the desk, just where I left them when
I finished my homework last night. That math assignment was particularly
difficult --
=Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.=
The chill suddenly turns to horror, as I realize what the Voice is saying. The
man in the picture -- he should be *here*, on this table, waiting for them to
come for him one last time. *His* throat should be raw from screaming, not
mine, and I should be lying in the comfort of my bed, with my Pittsburgh
Steelers blanket tucked up under my chin. I don't belong here; I want to go
home!
I can do it, I remind myself, taking a deep breath and trying to slow my racing
heart. All I have to do is close my eyes, and the dream will end and I'll be
home, safe and secure once more, and I'll never have to visit the bright, white
place, ever again.
I don't even have to do that, and suddenly I understand that, too. This is his
body, not mine, and when they come for him, and finally put an end to his
existence, the dream will end and I'll be home, and never have to be in this
place again. I try to breathe slowly and evenly as I cling to that knowledge.
I'll be safe. I'll be Kevin. I'll never have this dream again.
And she will be alone. Forever.
As quickly as I found my escape, now I feel it being snatched away. I can't let
that happen; I can't let her live in sorrow all the rest of her days. I've been
her; I know how she suffers. Even now, I can feel the horrible, tearing
sensation in my chest, the one that she carries around with her as a constant
companion, every bit as real as the child that grows within her. *His* child, I
realize, for it can't be anyone else's. And if I let this man die, that child
will grow up without a father, and the child's mother will grow old and die
without her lover.
She'll be alone.
And I can't let that happen. Not to her. Not to the one who saved me. I'm
going to have to stay in this dream after all.
The sorrow at my decision is intense, but mercifully brief. I feel a stabbing
longing for all the things I'll never do, all the things I'll never see, all the
things I'll never experience. I wish I could have played one more game of
baseball; I wish I could have taken Sheila to the movies one more time; I wish I
could do so many things. Most of all, I wish I could say goodbye to my father,
and try to make him understand.
But I don't think there's time, because I hear footsteps in the hallway.
Fortunately, it's an easy thing to do; it's easy to let go. I take a breath and
relax, and before I have time to reconsider, it's done. I'm here -- *all* of me
is here, including my bloody teenage hands, and that means that all of *him* is
*there*. He's safe, and eventually she'll find him. It's only a matter of
time.
They're in the room now, and I gaze at them calmly as they approach, able to
actually see them for the first time. They don't look as hideous as I'd
imagined; they may not be human, but they're still God's creatures, and nothing
that He made can truly be ugly. I find myself smiling slightly at the thought,
and then I close my eyes and wait. I wish I had my rosary, but it doesn't
really matter.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee --"
The pain begins, but this time it's not so hard to bear, because I know that I'm
not alone.
"Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus --"
I will never be alone again.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and in the hour of our
death."
Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.
"Amen."
=This is my son, with whom I am well pleased.=
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee --"
Fini